Sacrifice
by Nez
Summary: Pretty much my interpretation of what the Beginning may have been like, mainly from Astarael's point of view, although Kibeth also plays something of a role. I would be most gratified if you would r/r. ^_^
1. Default Chapter

All right, so this is my first attempt at writing Nix fanfic.  Please be kind!  ^_^  

Spoilers for Abhorsen... beware...

Oh, yes, and the first part is rather melodramatic.  ~_~()  Sorry about that.  I couldn't restrain myself.

By the way, if you haven't been able to tell, I'm not Garth Nix, and own none of this... alas...

~*~*~*~*~*~

_            Ashes._

_            Astarael._

_            After the First Death, they were all that was left._

_            The Destroyer ravaged the land until it was sure that all was in ruins, certain that it had left none living, that it brooded over a world of utter nothingness._

_            But Astarael lived._

_            And slowly, the Destroyer began to grow tired of this world, tired of the endless flakes of ash that swirled over what had once passed as fertile earth.  And so it withdrew, stealthily, and ever patient, it waited._

_            And life, as life always does, slowly blossomed once more, rising from the ashes in an unquenchable surge of rebirth.  After several centuries of steady growth, all forms of life, unrecognizable today, swarmed over the newly formed earth, and settled._

_            And the Destroyer struck once more._

_            Ashes._

_            Astarael._

_            Saraneth._

_            And the cycle continued, an endless welter of destruction, waiting with open jaws to crush whatever life would dare form.  Even as more survivors joined her ranks, Astarael began to despair of whether it would ever end, this routine of terror and annihilation.  _

_            But then, after the Sixth Death, she knew they were ready.  The Seventh Bright Shiner, the child Ranna, appeared, and she felt it.  They had the power create change._

_            Finally, they were ready._

~*~*~*~*~*~

            Astarael stared bemusedly down at the five slender digits that protruded oddly from this piece of flesh that was her 'hand.'  Somehow, that word blossomed in her mind, although she was sure she had never seen anything like it before.  Wide blue eyes traced over the tightly knitted structure of sinew and bone, the tracery of veins that formed this strange, spidery appendage, mystified by the complexity of this new body.

            She gazed up at the other six, and jolted back in alarm at the sight that met her eyes.  Where six blazing forms of Free Magic had sat when they had begun were now a strange collection of spindly, pale, fleshy creatures, staring in varying degrees of horror and perplexity at themselves.

            She could still smell the Free Magic in them, as alive and real as it had been when they had begun the making of the Charter some time ago (how long _had_ it been? Astarael wondered.  Minutes?  Hours?  Centuries?  It seemed so long ago, and yet not, when they had sat down here and sunk into the weaving of the Charter), but now it was tempered with something else, a whiff of wholeness, of _life,_ that hadn't been present in the sharp, familiar tang of Free Magic.  

            As if in response to some unanswered question, she felt a quiet pulse flare comfortingly around a pillar of flesh (her 'neck'), and wonderingly, she raised her 'hand' and watched as it moved towards her 'neck' to feel what was there.  Her pale fingers stumbled, her body still unsure of how exactly it was supposed to work, and grazed hesitantly, clumsily, over a rough cord of cloth around her neck, and she could feel the Charter there.  The shape of life itself.  She could feel part of herself in it, a faint whiff of familiarity that flowed along the endless stream of golden marks, and the others were present in it as well... it was _their_ Charter, and after centuries of planning, they had finally completed it.  A well of pride surged up in her throat, and the corners of her 'mouth' tugged upwards. 

            "I knew we would give up some of ourselves when we made the Charter, but I never knew it would be _this_ much."

            Six heads jerked up, staring.  It took all of them a while to realize it was Belgaer who had spoken, and a while longer to process the fact that this dark form with golden fur tumbling shaggily over its top (a 'head,' and 'hair,' Astarael processed dazedly) was actually Belgaer.  

            "I mean," he continued, "_look_ at us!"

            Astarael knew what he meant.  Before, she wouldn't have been able to force even a fraction of herself into this loose bag of skin, but now, she wore it comfortably.  Or at least as comfortably as one could wear such an ungainly clutter of flesh... 

            She shifted uneasily.  She suddenly felt vulnerable, and clutched at the collar about her neck for support, letting the familiarity of its power and strength wash through her, reassuring her.  Drawing a deep breath, she felt the muscles in her neck tense and contract, and this strange sequence of twitches somehow bore her slightly rusty voice from her throat.  

            "It was worth it, Belgaer," she said as firmly as possible, drawing reassurance from the continuing flow of the Charter beneath her fingers, "For this world to survive, it needs some semblance of order.  Such a stabilizer is what we need to defeat Orannis."

            A collective flinch rippled through the group at the sound of the Destroyer's name, and Saraneth quickly made the sign of blessing as she always did when she heard it, bidding all who died at Its hand to rest in peace.

            "It won't be long before the Destroyer strikes.  There is no way that It could have missed the creation of the Charter, and It won't be happy about it.  We need to be ready.  We have to learn to adjust to this new form."  Mosrael, always grave, pinned each of them with his piercing gaze as he spoke, watching them from beneath a veil of dark hair.  He, too, grasped at the collar about his neck as if was a lifeline.

            Dyrim nodded in agreement.  "And we must begin to give ourselves wholly to the Charter as well," she said quietly, her musical voice echoing faintly through the darkened cavern.  "Saraneth and I will give ourselves to our bloodlines, Astarael to her bells, and Belgaer and Ranna to stone and mortar.  Mosrael and Kibeth, do you still stand by your decision to remain separate from the complete integration of the Charter?"

            In response came two slightly exasperated grunts of affirmation.  

            Saraneth's voice was amused as she spoke.  "As I have told you several times before, I have Seen that it isn't their time yet, Dyrim.  Will you always be such a skeptic?"

            Dyrim shrugged, an odd, rippling motion in her shoulders.  She tugged at a strand of light brown hair and examined it as she answered lightly, "Yes, always, my dear Saraneth.  It's why you love me so."

            Saraneth rolled her eyes, and was about to respond when Mosrael interrupted them sharply.  "Stop this, both of you.  We cannot behave lightly at such a time.  We must prepare for Orannis' next attack!"

            A brief silence followed this.  Finally, Kibeth piped up, "Does anyone know how to move these things?  I've been trying to get up ever since we finished making the Charter."

*TBC*

What do you think?  Questions?  Comments?  Feel free to plunk them down on my doorstep.  ^_^


	2. Chapter 2

Many, many thanks to all of you lovely people who have reviewed.  ^_^  I very much appreciate your support!

Ok, so here's chapter two...

~*~*~*~*~*~

            _It was the cavern that had saved her.  _

_Nine leagues beneath the surface of the earth, it was a large pocket hollowed into the earth, lined with threads of Free Magic that held it together, keeping the immense weight of stone and earth above them from crushing down on them.  It consisted of one large cavern, with three passages leading off to one side, while a single passage ran from the other, connecting to a channel that shot straight up through the earth, sealed off one league from the surface. _

_She had created it long ago, before the First Death, when the signs of Orannis' presence began to appear.  She had recognized it for what it was, and had blasted this hollow deep into the earth like a drill grub, sealing the passage behind her as she had descended.  Fortified and expanded over the years, it had become home to her and her companions.  They spent much of their time their, relying on Saraneth's Sight to tell them of the outside world._

_            So it was with pride that Saraneth beamingly told them of how the Charter had begun to take root in the world above them, lending semblance and order to a world that had once been dominated by shapeless chaos.  Deep in the south, creatures of the same form that they now bore began to appear, calling themselves 'humans.'  The world was becoming stronger.  _

_            But it still wasn't enough.  Orannis was beginning to launch his next attack._

~*~*~*~*~*~

            Astarael flashed a quick, half-hearted smile towards Ranna as he handed her the bell he had forged for her of Charter and Free Magic.  She felt its power like a living presence as she grasped its handle, running her fingers over the smooth metal.  

            "Thank you," she said quietly, cupping her hands around it, the marks she needed to transform this from a just bell to Kibeth already flying into her mind even as she spoke.  _Movement,_ she thought, brushing her white hair from her pale, young face as her blue eyes followed Kibeth across the cavern.  Once the lean, dark woman had gotten used to the way her body worked, she had been using it to the fullest, skipping, dancing, running like a madwoman, just for the joy of movement.  Astarael smiled, feeling the Charter marks swell through her fingers and flow into the bell.  _Kibeth, the Walker._

            "Where did you come up with the idea to make these 'bells,' anyway?"

            The part of Astarael that wasn't focused on her work jerked in alarm, and her eyes fell on Ranna, who gazed up at her, eyes questioning.  She hadn't realized he was still there.

            Ranna was shorter than the rest of them, his face rounder, eyes wider.  His whitish-blond hair fell in his eyes as he craned his head up to see her face, fiddling with the half-completed sword he held loosely in his hands.  Charter marks swarmed thickly over its surface, glowing faintly in the shaded half-light of Astarael's corner.  He had created an entire series of them because of a request of Saraneth's, Astarael suddenly remembered; he was following one of her visions seen in the ice that encrusted an entire wall of the cavern.  

            Astarael wondered if she herself had Seen a vision when the idea for these strange, smooth metal bulbs had come to her.  She hadn't really thought them up; it was more as if she had _felt_ them.      

            "I don't know," Astarael answered slowly, "I've never really seen anything like them before, have you?  They just... came to me, I suppose.  They seem like the appropriate tools for a necromancer, don't you think?"

            Ranna nodded, eyes drifting to the two complete bells lined on the rock beside her.  He smiled and bent over them, admiring his handiwork.  Gently, he traced his finger over the smallest, watching the Charter marks glitter off its silver surface.  "Well, wherever the idea came from, they're beautiful," he murmured, "I especially like my bell... Sleeper.  Even if the name won't be fitting in another century or so.  Hmm... that reminds me, though...  I'm rather tired...  I've been wearing myself out over Nehima here.  She's been giving me some problems," he said with a soft smile, patting the sword with an almost fatherly affection. "I think I'm going to take a nap."  Smiling, he kissed Astarael on the cheek and trudged off to his corner of the cavern, sword clutched in his arms.  

            It was true, she mused, that he wouldn't be the Sleeper if he survived another century or so.  He had reached his three hundredth year several decades ago, and was in the very center of a troublesome stage that all Free Magic creatures seemed to go through.  He slipped into frequent periods of hibernation, and sometimes they had to take drastic measures in order to awaken him.

            Astarael smiled fondly as she watched him go, but her smile quickly faded as she returned her attention to the bells.  Exhaustion weighed heavy on her shoulders, and suddenly she felt as if she were Ranna's age again, easily tired and always feeling on the verge of collapse.  The creation of the bells was draining her, and taking her much longer than she had originally thought they would...  how was she going to finish all seven before Orannis chose to attack?  It was coming, Saraneth had said, and here she was, only on the third bell!  She sighed, and refocused her attention on the endless flow of the Charter.  She had to hurry.

~*~*~*~*~*~

            She dreamed of the Charter that night.

            The marks swarmed and flowed around her like so many stars, warm and caressing, singing a song of fresh air, summer sunlight, water, wind, trees... she reached towards the warm familiarity, the flow of marks that made her whole, shaped who she was and who she had been, many millennia ago...

            The marks clustered around her arms, gathering close like a thick flock of firebirds, and she felt their song, warm and real, glowing against her skin.  She laughed, and the sound escaped in a flurry of golden light, wrapping around her like a mantle...

            And vanished.

            Her heart froze as darkness swallowed her, cutting her off from the warmth and light of the Charter.  She reached out for its familiar swell and flow, arms clawing blindly, and stepped forwards...

            She screamed as her foot sank into a rush of frigid water, grasping hungrily at her legs.  She stumbled, white hair flying into her face, and quickly righted herself, but not without difficulty.  The darkness slowly faded, lifted, and she saw she was in Death.  This shouldn't be so disconcerting; Death was her realm, and she had been there more times than she could remember.  But something was wrong...

            She still couldn't connect to the Charter.  It was as if there was an invisible wall, blocking her off.  And suddenly, as she grasped vainly for the ebb and flow of golden marks, she became just a mound of flesh and bones.  Not Astarael, not the Abhorsen...  only a body.  The realization struck her like a blow to the gut, and she stumbled, the icy grip of the river strengthening around her legs.  Without the Charter, she was nothing.  She had given up too much of herself in its making... too much.  

            She clutched at her arms, gasping, terror rising in a wave of bile to her throat, because she was losing herself.  She dug her fingers into her arms until she bled, clutching desperately at herself, as if she could hold herself together with just sheer force of will.  But Astarael was draining away, sucked into the river that roared around her feet, swept into death even as she watched.  She wanted to dive into the water, tear after it, and she nearly laughed at the irony of the thought- trying to catch herself.  But there wasn't enough of her left to laugh, because she was gone, and all that was left was a dull, freezing emptiness that settled over her heart and around her neck.

            Her eyes glazed over, and she watched, dully, as the cord around her neck fell with a faint splash into the river, and then transformed into a sheet of flame, a blaze of sudden heat and color in the stretch of endless gray.  It swarmed around her, filling her vision until it was all she could see, all she was...

~*~*~*~*~*~

            "...tarael!  Astarael!"   

            She jerked awake, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding violently against her ribcage.  Gasping ragged lungfuls of sharp, cold air, her hand immediately flew to the collar around her neck, clawing at the familiar warmth that flowed beneath her fingers.  

            She felt arms close around her, supporting her, and a voice whispered urgently in her ear.  "Astarael, are you all right?" 

            As her breathing gradually slowed, her eyes began to adjust to the thick, clean darkness of the cavern, and focused on Saraneth, who bent worriedly over her, the soft roundness of her face cast into dim shadow.  The witch gently brushed damp clumps of white hair out of Astarael's sweaty face, and softly kissed her temple.

            "You were screaming, dearest," she said quietly, "Did you have a nightmare?"

            Astarael relaxed into her arms, and closed her eyes, nodding, not trusting herself to speak.

            "None of us have been able to sleep well lately," sighed a voice close to her ear, which Astarael recognized as Kibeth's.  Another arm reached to wrap around her waist, and a dark head rested on her shoulder.  Astarael nestled into the warmth that her friends' bodies provided, trying to ward away the clammy dampness that shuddered over her skin.

            "I've been having nightmares of strange four-legged creatures with floppy ears and waggling tails," she continued, "although I can't say it was wholly a nightmare.  I kind of liked the things."  She gave a quiet, barking laugh.  "What was yours about?"

            Astarael hesitated, and gripped tighter at the collar at her neck as her nightmare came swarming back at her.  She shook her head, looking down at her lap.  "It was nothing, really," she said, her voice hoarse from, she supposed, screaming.  "I think I'll be all right.  Thank you, both."

            "I think you've been overworking yourself," Saraneth scolded, the sternness in her voice softened by her obvious concern.  "Don't you think three bells in one day is a little much?"

            Astarael tilted her head so she could see Saraneth's face, and smiled.  "Six done, one to go," she said with a faint sense of pride, feeling the tense grip of her nightmare slowly begin to loosen and fade.  She turned her gaze to the six bells, lined side by side on a ledge nearby.  They glowed faintly in the darkness, and somehow, Astarael felt that they were concerned for her.  Her smile grew, and she shifted her gaze so that it fell on the seventh, unfinished bell, which Belgaer had made that evening.  Her bell.  She still wasn't sure what she would call it... what was it about her that made her stand out?  She really didn't know.

Sighing, she tilted her head so she could see the rest of the cavern.  She blinked in surprise upon seeing it empty.

            "Where is everyone?" she inquired.

            "Trying to debate with Yrael," Kibeth grumbled, disgust evident in her voice.  "Dyrim made me stay behind because she said I would 'lose my temper.'  Hmph!  As if I would waste any breath on that good-for-nothing..."

            "_That_, I think, is why Dyrim didn't wish for you to go, Kibeth," Saraneth interrupted gently, amused.  Kibeth merely sniffed in response, pretending to look wounded.  Rolling her eyes, Saraneth turned to Astarael, and continued, "I stayed behind to look after you.  You seemed like you needed some rest, so we decided to let you sleep."   

Astarael frowned.  "They're debating?  Are they trying to make that apathetic lump of Free Magic join our side?  That isn't going to happen."

            Kibeth rolled her eyes.  "Tell that to Dyrim," she muttered, "I swear, she is more stubborn and mulish than a Ferenk."

            Astarael smiled.  "Which is exactly why we chose her to lead if... _when_, I mean, we... succeed."

            A heavy, uncomfortable silence followed this, voicing all too eloquently all of their unspoken fears.  It was broken abruptly when Saraneth chimed a bit too brightly, "So, what are you going to name your bell, Astarael?"  She leaned over and picked up the seventh bell, placing it in the necromancer's hands.  Astarael cupped the comforting weight and warmth of metal in her hands, and gazed lovingly at it, tracing her fingertips around the rim.

            "Hm.  Well, I was thinking Astarael the Great, or perhaps Astarael the Mighty.  Although I think Astarael the Dazzlingly Beautiful has the best ring to it," she laughed, before curling her fingers around the handle and gently ringing the bell.  Low, rich tones rolled from it, echoing through the darkness.

            "How about Astarael the Egomaniac?  I think that fits the best," Kibeth teased.  "And I see you've made _your_ bell the largest.  Why is that, hm?"

            Saraneth laughed and took the bell from Astarael, holding it reverently.  "I think..." she began, but suddenly, she paused.  Her green eyes locked onto a smattering of moisture that had trickled onto the bell's surface when it had lain on the ledge, and her eyes clouded, voice deepening as she spoke in the ringing tones of prophecy.  She only voiced three words.

            "_Astarael, the Weeper."_

~*~*~*~*~*~

*TBC*


End file.
